The War Within
by L. Mercury
Summary: It's been seven years since the Infamous Battle of Hogwarts, and both the muggle and magical worlds are anything but pleasant. (Fair warning: Alcoholism, graphic depiction of heavy drug use/addiction, major character death, angsty & depressing emo sh*t by a chronically homeless trans 19 yr old;) Slow burn Drarry. Will the boy who survived get another chance to live? Will the world?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One:

Harry was standing only a few feet away from him- that evil, dark semblance of a former man that since forever had haunted his every thought- they circled each other slowly. The sea of tense faces gathered around seemed a million light-years away as every last bit of reality seemed to drip away from him like water in his cupped hand. He had to do it. Get it over with. Everything depended on him and him alone. It seemed to all boil down to these last, suspenseful moments. The icy words vaguely spoken by his enemy pierced him like chilled glass; he would have been frozen if not for the boiling hatred in his veins. It all depended on him keeping a cool head. More words were spoken, this time, though, they came from Harry.

"Why?" The abnormally high-pitched voice shook him to the core- somehow, it wasn't his, and it felt unnaturally real.

"Why did I fail?! YOU MUST KNOW. WHY COULDN'T I DO IT?! TELL ME!"

The object of his hatred suddenly transformed, somehow not to Harry's surprise, into a much respected former headmaster Albus Dumbledore.

He spoke softly, but Harry knew his words and the meaning behind them would somehow tear him to shreds.

"Harry, you didn't fail. You succeeded. Thanks to you, the last piece of the puzzle fell neatly into place. The only thing keeping me from my well deserved victory was your inability to let go. And you did so very gracefully, if I do say so myself. This world- my collection of possessions… I owe you my sincere gratitude. My own worst enemy- turned out to be the key element to my success. Your very existence has been the reason for my achievement." With every word, the voice grew higher and colder. More snake-like than human. His eyes turned slowly from their piercing blue to a hardened iron, flashing red almost like a bloody lighthouse was located behind them.

It happened in slow motion: Harry's wand hand stretched forward, his mouth righteously trying to cast the disarming charm that had always served him so loyally. But no sound came out; instead, Voldemort seemed to be slowly lifted from the ground, his cold and evil laugh piercing every part of Harry's mind, and then pain- penetrating each cell of his body. And then everything was enveloped in a suffocating darkness, one which he felt enter his lungs, but one that was much deeper than physicality.

Harry Potter woke up in a cold sweat, gasping for air. His dirty sheet clung to his damp body as his heart seemed to cling to life. His green eyes showed only a sliver of the trauma behind them, but his frozen stare held much more than one thousand words.

After a petrifying account of his nightmare, he forced his trembling body in an upright position.

His lightning bolt scar seared as if someone had pressed hot coals on the inside of his skull, and his head almost hung behind his drawn-up knees.

His shaking hand wandered over to his right, off of his ancient-looking mattress. On the floor, just half a foot below, he felt around for what he needed.

The former youngest seeker in over a century, the once-great Boy Who Lived, had certainly seen better days. Twenty-four years old, his body now a shadow of its' former health; his once-muscular frame now hung about him even more hauntingly than his messy, almost Snape-like black hair; his facial hair had not been shaved or trimmed in a few weeks, and every bone poked through his skin as if trying to escape the torture that lived within.

Twenty-four years old, and he now believed he would be the Man Who Died Alone- although, at this point, he wasn't entirely sure he could die.

The man who failed the entire world, the man who failed his friends, the closest thing to family he ever had, the man who failed himself…

It had been seven years- had it? Since he had been defeated by Lord Voldemort. Seven years since he had let the world down. Seven years since that infamous battle of Hogwarts, where the only one powerful enough to stop The Dark Lord had been brought to the brink of death, his magical powers stripped like a band-aid that left an open wound. Seven years since his failure had rescinded him into obscurity.

Harry found his glasses, and put them on hastily. Reaching under the mattress, he pulled out a tiny plastic bundle and a not-so-clean syringe.

"Not obscurity-" he thought out loud, _"Infamy…"_

He wasn't entirely wrong. He often felt that anyone who survived after the war had placed the blame solely on his head.

Only Ron had survived. Out of everyone he loved, only he was left. And he had made it clear- crystal clear- to Harry, that his trust had been sorely misplaced, that the death of one Hermione Granger was also on his head.

With a pang of guilt, he remembered her muggle parents, still living without the memory that she even existed, in another part of the world- happy and carefree, and if only Hermione had been alive right now…

His left hand reached up to touch a paint-peeled window seal, and he ran his hand lengthwise across it until he found a small metal tin and his lighter.

As he prepared the toxic brew, he could only think about the many reasons he did it to himself.

Heroin- a muggle drug.

Apparently, not nearly as physically addictive to the wizarding kind, but nonetheless- Harry had a problem putting it down. It was ten times stronger than firewhiskey, and it was a sedative to his restless mind- a warm blanket that temporarily isolated him from the freezing reality he was regularly submerged in. And he had decided that if he was going to drown, he at least be numb while it happened.

Now, most drugs were much easier to get, as Dark Wizards and Death Eaters ran corrupt in parliament, secretly hiding behind the guise of politicians. Muggles still were not aware that magic existed- something that Harry had always expected to be the stronghold in Voldemort's first line of offense- but it had never happened. Apparently, the then-current systems were already set to the preferences of the wizards who now ran the world- muggles were already in servitude to their own one percent, all it had taken was a little flick of a wand here and there, an effort to produce Polyjuice potion, and they were now serving the one-percent of the wizarding world as well. Life in the muggle world was still getting gradually worse, every day.

Harry held the needle up to the light- the tip gleamed as if challenging him to action. He grabbed his belt from the floor, and tied it tightly around the middle of his left arm.

He held the needle up again, this time, flicking it until every last bubble rose upwards, and then pushing in the plunger until a droplet of it's contents spilled out of the top.

He paused, not out of hesitation- but excitement. The most intimate part was about to begin.

He carefully found the bulging vein in the crook of his arm, and slapped it a few times before feeling satisfied. He gently positioned the tip at an angle parallel to his arm, and it slowly sank in. This, alone, was almost an unearthly feeling- watching something so delicate, yet dangerous- happen to his body. But it wasn't enough yet. He pulled the plunger back. He had hit and registered.

_"I always had good luck,..." _He thought bitterly.

He allowed the syringe to rest on his arm, watching the blood slowly swirl around inside. Blood. Blood that contained the loving sacrifice of Lily Potter. Blood that contained the bravery and courage of James.

He carefully undid the belt around his arm, taking care not to move too much. He knew what a missed shot could do, even to a wizard. He then took the syringe up again in his right hand, and drew it back a little more to make sure it hadn't slipped out- it hadn't- before slowly driving the plunger all the way down.

Harry felt it instantly. It was almost like a euphoric, pleasant, long disapparation to somewhere much better.

Almost carelessly, he yanked the needle out of his arm, and instinctively rolled onto his right side.

Before he nodded off completely, he vaguely remembered thinking that he would have much preferred number twelve, Grimmauld Place, to the dingy, one-room flat he only sort of occupied now.

ooOoo


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two:

Harry woke up late in the day. The afternoon sun was out, and it would have hit his senses most unpleasantly if the familiar London fog had not loomed in front of it, clinging to everything that once was bright and cheerful. Dementors swooped, visible to him, through the dim gray light- doubtlessly en route to their next defenseless muggle victims.

His surroundings seemed to spin into view, and a quivering nausea took hold of his stomach before he stumbled into the bathroom and became sick.

Several painful minutes later, he staggered out of the bathroom and towards a pile of his clothes on the floor. He put on a plain grey t-shirt and a pair of worn-looking blue jeans, before slipping a black hoodie with white stripes on it over his skinny frame.

He looked around his furnitureless, dull apartment and thought again about Grimmauld Place. At this point, he would have much preferred Number Four, Privet Drive to this bleak existence.

As if he had somehow conjured her with his thoughts, he heard a fast knock at the door, and when he finally opened it, there she stood on the threshold.

Bonier and more horse-like than ever, her skeletal hands rang themselves frantically, as if she were trying to start a fire to keep herself warm.

"Hi, Petunia." He said sluggishly.

Her visits had been weekly, and at first Harry had believed that they were nothing more than a trip to the zoo for her, with him locked inside his own mental cell and her poking him through the bars. But those suspicions slowly faded and were replaced with different theories after many a return visit, although she had never talked to him much and she hadn't started recently. She even started bringing him food.

Her lip quivered and her feet shuffled a little uncertainly in the door frame, but her eyes showed a curious mixture of anxiety and worry. Was it worry? Harry could never tell.

"Hello, Harry," She spoke in a squeaky voice uncharacteristic of herself, still ringing her hands before lunging forward and throwing her arms around him.

This startled him, as he was sure at first that she was about to strangle, push or at least slap him, as was the usual affair in the Dursley household. But she did not. She just stood there, letting tiny sobs escape here and there.

Harry was uncomfortable already, but having someone so unbelievably cruel melt down into someone he suddenly felt sympathy for…

"Er, wha-" He started,

"He's gone! He's gone forever! My little Du-Du…" Her words faded into a loud and rather clingy cry, before Harry's brain had time to unravel her broken off statement of anguish.

"Dudley…" He started, "Dudley's-"

He broke off as his aunt placed a hand over her thin lips and sobbed louder.

Harry literally couldn't process this information, so for lack of something better to say, he simply asked, "Do you want to come in?"

She parted from him not quickly, but swiftly, before inhaling a deep shuddering breath and looking at him with her baggy, tear-filled eyes.

Her voice seemed to return to normal when she spoke, "I brought you something… treacle tart, actually. Don't look at me like that," she snapped, as he gaped at her.

"I happen to know more about you than nearly anyone. Just because I wasn't… there- for you," she seemed to have a hard time putting whatever it was into words, but she continued on, "I… You… you have your mother's eyes."

The line, which had been recited many times to Harry before, seemed to have newfound meaning to him, and it hit harder than a ton of bricks.

Petunia rescued a large paper bag by it's handles from the floor of the hallway, and made her way inside before setting it down on the floor.

"You live like you were raised in a cave," she spat, bitterly.

Harry would have had a hard time biting back a retort, but he was almost too distracted by his aunt's previous burst of emotion to even think of a good one.

A long stretch of silence seemed to extend between them for more than a minute.

"Was it that bad? The way we treated you?"

"You thought it was _okay?! You thought it would be fine?!_ To lock someone up in a tiny closet? To make them live that way? I was only a _child!_"

He wasn't just angry. He was filled with rage at the injustice of it all. So much pent up emotion that had never been released. And he was finally going to let it all go…

Before he remembered why Petunia was there.

Another bout of silence passed before he spoke again.

"I'm sorry about Dudley," the words came from him, but he couldn't be sure what part of him they came from. Was he? Could he be? He just didn't understand.

"Yes, well… It's all in the past now, isn't it?"

"What?"

"I knew it would happen for a while. I knew he was sick. He spent a month in hospital before.. before…" she took a deep breath again, and cleared her throat before concluding, "There's more than treacle tart in the bag. Don't go hungry. You look like you've been starving for months on end…" Harry thought it ironic that she should care now, after all, she had spent months on end starving him before, "... Anyway, Vernon still doesn't know I'm supporting you, one word and I'll have you sectioned faster than that little broomstick you were possessed by as a child."

"Thanks, Petunia. You were always the understanding sort," he said this through clenched teeth.

Without another word, she left him standing on his own, as she stalked out of the room leaving him with nothing but a bag of not-just treacle tart and a tangible air of guilt and anger that flowed from the both of them.

When the door slammed, he sat down on his bed. He wasn't sure how to handle the emotions coursing through him. He was heartened that he had someone there, if only for a minute or two every week. But he disliked- disliked was a weak word, hated- the person who made the visits. These feelings grew into a tangled mess as he added more pros and cons to his almost obsessive list about his Aunt's visits. And, Dudley... Dead? Harry could swear he never even heard her mention whatever it was that killed him. Not once. Hospital? His mind was anything but clear, and so was  
almost incapable of absorbing the information that she had left him with.  
Later in the night, he concluded that it was better a visit from her, than from Aunt Marge.

Before he knew it, another week had passed on. Every day was either a journey to find more heroin, or hours spent nodding off.

Sometimes he was surprised that his muscles hadn't atrophied yet; the rest of him had given up, but his body kept him tied to this place, and his heart kept ticking away the time like a broken clock.

Thursday night was almost over, and he had had no visits. He felt a pang of guilt, when the thought occurred to him that he might have pushed her away.  
He allowed himself to stew in self-loathing for a while, and there was only one thing that would stop him, he knew. But it would only stop him temporarily.

It was nearly midnight, when he was about to reach under his bed again. But then he heard it. And he barely heard it, at that.

There was a tapping on the window pane above his head.

He thought he had imagined it first, but he hadn't. The tapping grew louder, and louder, before he heard the glass crack.

He sat up, head spinning, and put on his glasses. On the other side of the window, there was a large bird. Not an owl, but just a falcon.

"You're beautiful," he said. It was beautiful. It's dark, almost coal feathers were slick against it's piercing black stare, its bright yellow beak was the same hue as its talons, which descended from a light, almost cream color underbelly.

"For a minute there, I thought you were an owl. I suppose no-one wants to talk to me anyway." He was about to sink back down into his mattress when the great bird shifted, turning around. Much to Harry's surprise, it picked something up from the ledge, and tapped again at the glass- this time leaving a formidable looking crack in its surface. Harry quickly threw the window open, and the falcon swept inside, let the slim package fall from its beak and into Harry's hand, and departed leaving a single feather to fall gently through the air.

Harry was about to rip the paper off, before he paused and stared at the package. Was this something he should open? Who could possibly have a positive motive when sending him mail?

After careful deliberation, he found himself in a reckless mood and tore it off anyway.

Under the brown wax paper, was a sleek black box. Harry already knew what it might be, even though another part of him was certain it would be some sort  
of cursed necklace or worse. Or maybe the bird had just been confused. Harry, even now as a heroin addict, was still so intensely a Gryffindor that even going through  
another persons mail would make him guilty.  
Like a dagger to the chest, he heard Hermione's voice inside his head, "Harry, opening other people's mail is illegal! And what if it were cursed? Honestly,  
Harry, sometimes I just don't know how you're still alive..." the voice trailed off as he pushed the memory of her voice painfully out of his mind.

He resumed his task and removed the top of the box. It slid off with little resistance. To his utter bewilderment, there was a wand carefully resting in a golden velvet plush, and not just any wand.  
It was _his wand_.  
How? He had thrown it out after he lost his ability to do magic. That was far too long ago.  
There was a small envelope inside the box, as well.  
Harry tore that open, hoping to find an answer to his questions inside, but all he found was a scrap of parchment reading, "_holly, e__leven inches long, core contains a single phoenix feather, and a hair from the tail of a thestral."  
"WHAT?"_ He remarked out loud. Harry's mind was racing- he had his wand back, but...

_"THESTRAL?!"_ he repeated, looking almost as awe-struck as he was confused.

More and more questions started to fill his head. He ran one hand through his hair as he stared in amazement. He slowly picked up his wand and admired it.  
He knew it wouldn't work, but he tried it anyway-  
a swish and a flick later, and the only thing he had accomplished was sending a small puff of gray smoke towards the ceiling.

Another night passed, and he didn't use nearly as much as he would have this time, feeling a small spark of hope just flickering in the back of his mind.

When the silver afternoon light shone through the multitude of dust particles in front of his windows, Harry was already awake.  
He had been up for a few hours, nauseated and confused. On his floor lay a collection of items, most of it rubbish- that he had been trying to transfigure,  
levitate, disappear, and _Accio_.

Only with true willpower had Harry sat there, this long- trying in vain to just do _something. _  
But to no avail. At the moment, he was trying to levitate an old sweets wrapper.  
He was growing more and more frustrated.  
_"Wngardium __leviosa," _he tried, "_WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA!"_  
Still, nothing happened, but there was a large cloud of gray smoke that had accumulated during his poor attempts at magic hovering in his flat by  
now.  
Harry sat back and sighed. He had little to hope for now, he thought. Now, all this wand was to him was a good-looking stick.  
He had still slept with it all night. He had only put it down when he rushed to the bathroom in the morning, sick and tired.  
Part of him wanted to throw it out the window, to dispose of the memory for good because all it seemed to bring him was unbearable pain. But the part of  
him that still had hope knew that he was never going to detach himself from it in a million years.

He laid his aching body down, and closed his eyes. Even the good memories were excruciating, so he hadn't bothered to drudge them up in a while.  
But as he lay, brilliant green eyes closed, hands tightly grasping his wand, it felt as though an old friend had come to stay.  
Memories came flooding back- the first letter he had ever received, the first good thing that had happened to him. He remembered a depressed and  
hopeless boy, who had gotten the rush of a lifetime when he discovered his true nature. He remembered, heat building behind his eyes, meeting Ron  
Weasley for the first time on the Hogwarts express, and Hermione Granger, and Neville Longbottom and Draco Malfoy. Now, even Malfoy brought nostalgia  
to his weary mind.  
He remembered with a jolt what it was like the first time he flew. Wind whipping at his hair, an amazing swooping feeling in his stomach- and then, feeling as  
though he was as light as a feather, guiding his broomstick almost effortlessly through the air. It seemed as though oxygen was suddenly thick, and that he  
was cutting through it like a razor through butter.  
He almost let a laugh escape through his held back tears, as he recalled the catalyst that prompted his first flight, that lead him to become the youngest  
seeker in a century.  
Malfoy had taken Neville's Remembrall only moments after he had been injured and carted off to see Madam Pomfrey. "God," Harry thought out loud, "Have I  
always been so easy to manipulate?"  
Yes, after all these years, he still grudgingly owed Malfoy for that.

About five minutes of memories floated through his mind. He was crying freely now, sobbing silently between every pained breath.  
He rolled onto his side, clutching both his wand and his chest, as if he was trying to stop the heartache by reaching through his ribcage and strangling it.

Now, he thought desperately about the last person who cared about him. Ron Weasley. Did he really still hate him after all these years? Would he still feel the same if he ever saw him again? Or worse, just walk away?  
Harry needed to know. He had repressed these questions for far too long, and it seemed his willpower was going to break him if he just did nothing.  
Although, nothing is what he could do. He forced himself not to sit upright and stumble through his door, out into London proper, the thought of trying to find  
a way back into the wizarding world was purely exasperating.  
So he laid there, and he pushed the feeling of defeat away, hoping against hope that somehow, just somehow-  
The familiar squeezing sensation engulfed him, and the last thing he saw was a swirling view of his dingy, one room flat.

ooOoo


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three:

Harry popped into existence suddenly, and much to his utter bewilderment, on the kitchen floor in a dark, cluttered, and dusty house he hadn't visited in years.  
He clamored to his feet, trying to steady his nerves and his equilibrium after a decent head rush nearly caused him to collapse again, no doubt from the sudden movement he had forced his body to perform with extreme exertion.  
The head rush and the fact that he had accidentally Apparated when he was sure that he no longer held the privilege of magical ability couldn't hold a candle to the fact that somehow, fate conspired to bring him here, of all places...  
The bloody Burrow.

Unwanted memories came flooding back as if someone had just turned on a tap in the back of his mind. The good times came first; Fred and George, testing their newest line of ton-tongue-toffee on Ron, Ginny kissing him for long moments, leaving for the Quidditch World Cup- these memories alone were enough to effectively drown Harry in morose, dark, yet nostalgic depression. Longing so strong it was pure agony.

Then came more memories, the tap opening wider.  
Harry and Ron, sitting in this very kitchen when the war was over- Hermione's lifeless form only a room away, draped in flowing white linen and floating a few feet off of the ground in an eerie, almost tranquil state the silence between the pair stretched long into the night before Harry came to the realization that nothing would ever be the same again.

The remainder of the family- Bill and Fleur, Molly and Arthur, George and Charlie, Ron and Ginny- all held a silent vigil for those who had died in  
the war, including Fred, Tonks, and Remus.  
Harry felt like they owed him nothing, and not to his surprise, they reciprocated the feeling in an intense and solemn manner, utterly ignoring his existence which, he thought, he deserved.  
He only expected Ron, however, to at least talk to him. Maybe. He hadn't been sure what he expected. How could he expect anything more from these people? Guilt had nestled deep in the pit of his stomach, and whenever Harry felt ready to drift off into a much needed sleep, it groped at him, tugging at his raw heartstrings and trying to suffocate  
air he felt not entitled to out of his heaving lungs.

When he finally did speak, it was only the anxious, quaking feeling that kept attacking him from behind his ribs that prompted it.

"Ron?"  
His voice sounded uncertain and almost scared, it almost cracked from its recent overuse. His green eyes, wide and bloodshot, never moved from the bit of wall he had been so intent upon.

Ron made a noise not like himself; it was almost a scoff- but Harry knew better than to oversimplify whatever it was his best friend was feeling right now.

His soft brown eyes hardened into bronze as they bored through the exhausted figure before him. His voice sounded so cold that one might've been able to pick the frost out of the air of death between them.  
"Harry."

Forcing himself to return to the present, Harry felt his jaw clench painfully. His fists tightened at the memory, almost of their own accord. This caused him to take notice of the wand in his right hand, the familiar sensation of his sweaty palm gripping the material like his life depended on it was as welcome as it was detested.

"Lumos" Harry whispered, but the wand only gave off a few sparks and a low, disappointing sizzling noise.  
Cursing the universe for his bizarre and unwelcome situation, he took in and held a deep, raspy breath, and closed his eyes, attempting to Disapparate.  
He waited for a second too long, and when he finally breathed out he felt like there were pins and needles in his lungs. He opened his eyes. Still in the Burrow. But, how did he manage to Apparate? Or was his wand some kind of portkey? No, he rationalized- he still remembered the unpleasantness of Apparation. He would much have preferred- "Flying," Harry said to himself. He hadn't been on a broom in years- were there still brooms in the shed?

Harry was definitely not in a decision-making mindset, but was forced between prolonging an all-too nostalgic situation coupled with the off chance that Ron might show up, versus getting on a broom and trying to fly back to his flat. Somehow. Had he ever even flown to or from the Burrow before? Not that he could remember- this wasn't going to be fun, but it was, as he believed, his only choice.

He ran outside and towards the broomshed, and had nearly flung open the door when there spoke a slurred, gravelly, hiccupping voice behind him.  
"Finally came ba-ck, did you, y-you blo-ody traitor. Betray-al,"  
Harry spun on the spot to find Ron Weasley, so smashed that the Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw herself couldn't have given him wisdom.  
"Ron," Harry started, but for a lack of words, only stared back.  
Ron swayed on the spot, with a near-empty bottle of Firewhiskey loosely dangling from one hand, and his wand held between two fingers like a cigarette from the other. He was wearing dirty old robes, that, apart from the lack of emblem, looked as if he hadn't gotten rid of them since his first year at Hogwarts.  
"I don't care what you're doing. Just don't... Ju-st don't take my broom. If that's what you're lo-oking for, you'd be-tter get going, b'cause I've only got the one and I'll h-ex... I'll curse you into next year," Ron finished his subtle threats and staggered towards the front door of The Burrow. He stopped however, looking over his shoulder at Harry, who was still processing reality- and added, "You coming in, or just waiting for the d-mentors?"  
Harry's brain had exploded, he was sure of it. However, his body suddenly understood everything and staggered after Ron, with a faint look of apprehension in his eyes.

Once inside, Ron whisper-slurred something, and pulled out the Deluminator from his robes, lighting candle after lantern after fireplace in the house.

After the place had been thoroughly illuminated, Ron, who had been seemingly ignoring Harry's presence, made his way to the kitchen and slumped in a chair. Harry followed suit. With the sudden change of lighting, He could better assess his former friend's appearance.  
Ron looked exhausted; his pallor was tinted grey where it wasn't sunburn-red, v and the fat around his cheekbones had diminished so much it looked as though someone had used a Vanishing charm on it. This was not helped by his patchy, red stubble that looked honestly worse than Harry's. Dark circles played their way around his weary, yellow-tinted eyes, his muscles were no longer pronounced as they had been, and he had grown a little thick in the torso; drinking had likely done all this to him.  
Harry was taking all this in, and the fact that the man had even let him, no- invited him inside, when Ron slumped over onto the table and fell into a deep sleep without uttering so much as a single unhinged syllable.  
Harry would not even try to wake him up, not because he knew he would be belligerent and pissed, but because he knew that help was another thing that Ron definitely did not owe him.  
He pried the bottle out of his limp hand and wondered what he had gotten himself into.

Morning broke finally, and Harry was withdrawing badly. Ron awoke slowly and with a blinding hangover, as he brushed the shaggy, red hair out of his vision and tried to stand up. He stumbled into the bathroom to find the former-Gryffindor slumped over the toilet, every inch of his weak, sweat-soaked body shaking and convulsing. He lifted his head over the bowl and dry-heaved heavily before garnering a response from Ron.

Ron knew immediately that something was wrong, but his built-up resentment and his hangover did nothing to ease his attempt at sympathy.

"What the fuck.." He started, then realized that was not the most cunning way to engage in this situation. "You're going to St. Mungo's."  
He rummaged around in a cabinet by the door until he found a hangover potion, downed it, and the effects washed over him almost instantly.

Harry slumped back down, his arms curled around the bottom part of the loo, and fixated on Ron's presence with an unfocused glare. The words came out shakily and through tightly clenched teeth, but conveying a level of resistance that Ron would admittedly be proud of, if it hadn't been under the current circumstances.  
"I. Do not. Need. Help."

"Let me think, um... How did I find you- oh, right." Ron's counter-glare deepened as memories of the previous night crashed into his mind like a car into a brick wall. "You broke into my house, tried to make off with my broom, and now you're obviously exhausted from being sick all night over my loo. Merlin, like HELL you don't need help."

Harry failed to produce an argument, not for lack of trying, and lifted his head over the bowl again before vomiting up what looked like pure water.  
Ron found his wand on the floor and tucked it into his robes, wondering how in the hell he got it back. But that mystery could wait. He still hated Harry, but the sight of him barely breathing through tremors and quaking breaths was enough to garner pity. Which, he wouldn't admit to, but he knew he had to do something. It almost looked as if Harry wasn't going to make it if he kept on like this.  
He located Harry's glasses just feet away from himself, and pulled out his wand. He grabbed Harry by his bicep, even though he tried and failed to fight it, and Apparated them both straight to St. Mungo's.

Harry woke up later in a hospital bed, strangely calm for what was his normal, and looked around. He didn't remember getting there, nor really why he had came, for a moment.

He busied his hand for a moment, trying to locate his glasses on the bedside table to his right. Upon finding them, his shaking hand managed to equip them and his eyes seemed grateful at the loss of necessity to impossibly try and strain through the blurriness. After adjusting his eyesight, his mind snapped his stare to the only other person in the ward- Ron Weasley, who had all but fallen asleep in the chair to his left. When he noticed Harry's movement, he moved his gaze to meet his. He looked more exhausted than Harry felt.  
The moments long stare was broken when a Mediwitch walked briskly through the open door to the ward and set a stern look at Harry. She was an older woman with grey hair and frown lines around her thin lips, her cold expression playing like a clever illusion around her heated hazel eyes. She was skinner than Petunia, and taller, too; Harry doubted that she wasn't nearly a foot taller than him. She needn't say a word, because Harry could practically hear her thoughts as though he were an accomplished Legilimens. But she did speak eventually,  
although not directly at Harry. Instead, she spoke to Ron; "Mr.. Weasley, I am relieved to report that your unscrupulous looking friend here will, how should I put this- continue to endure adequate physical standing. In my own opinion, perhaps for many weeks to come. The same, very obviously, cannot be rightly said for his mental state; however, since it is not my place to tell two fully grown wizards what to do, I believe that the responsibility rests with Mr.. Potter to take care of himself, and for you, Mr.. Weasley, to either support your... friend, or to pretend that you sense nothing is amiss." She stopped for a second, in which Ron opened his mouth to speak, but she simply raised a hand to him in firm protest and began again, "And since it is not my place to make small talk, either, I suspect that the two of you will reward my professionalism with silence as I get on with my job. Mr.. Potter, you are released," she whipped out her wand and summoned a piece of parchment and a quill from thin air, and they levitated onto Harry's lap before she began again, "Please, if you would, place your signature on the bottom line, and quickly dismiss yourselves from the premises. We have patients who need this space more than someone who blatantly regards their life with little significance." To this, Harry looked around at the empty ward, really letting it sink in how much they wanted him gone, and sat up to sign the bit of parchment in his lap. She waited patiently as Harry begrudgingly signed his release papers, and was in mid-stride out when she whipped her form around so suddenly, it almost looked as though she had been pulled by an invisible force. "Oh, and, Mr.. Potter- please do try to prevent this sort of thing from becoming a common occurrence. This hospital and it's loyal staff, while it remains our sole duty to take care of and look after the sick, injured and dying, do not personally owe you anything more."

The pair of men were left to deafening silence once more, and neither of them could handle it any more. They immediately began busying themselves, Ron pouring water into a glass with a muttered Aguamenti, and Harry, as quickly as he could manage, removing his hospital clothes with blatant disregard to his awkwardly quiet company, before tugging his shirt over his messy hair and roughly pulling his jeans up, jumping a little to release the bottom of them from his feet before realizing that he still had no shoes to put on. He was essentially barefoot and much too exposed in more than a few ways in the current situation.

When he was decent, Harry glanced at Ron, feeling almost paranoia creep up his spine, and shame flare up behind his face.

"Where do you live?" Ron's words were dull and gruff, and his stare was cold.

"I-" Harry began, but the words didn't come. He had just found Ron, had just seen him for the first time in too long, to just leave things the way they were, to just leave things like he did last time. And, there was in the midst of it all, a tiny spark of hope- logic be damned. Hope that he might have somewhere else to spend his nights, hope that he might even have another person to talk to. Fear that if he went back to his flat, he would rush immediately to the bag that awaited him under his bed. He had been given an opportunity here, however bleak. An opportunity not just for company and making amends, but also to be forced into giving up heroin. He studied the cold stone tile beneath his bare feet for a second longer than necessary, and began again, the words now pouring out from him as if an invisible tap had been loosened in the back of his mind. "I- I just really don't want to go back there. Not now, not- ever. I don't even live there, I just... kind of fall asleep there and... It feels more like I'm dying there. It's not that I'm asking you for anything, and so please don't think that- I'm not. You obviously owe me less than nothing, and..." He trailed off, taking notice of the look on Ron's face, kicking himself for having not just said where his flat was.

"I'm not asking you for anything.' That's a load of shite, that is. Stupid Gryffindor bravery, fucking Gryffindor courage. You broke into my house last night and tried to steal from me! After years of moping around and hiding after the war! Stop kidding yourself, Harry. You're asking for help because you need help. It's normal, it's human. Guess who else kept their 'Gryffindor pride' intact? My entire fucking family. Guess what it got them?" His voice was cracking now, and Harry could just make out a tear welling up in the corner of his eye, before it spilled down his reddened cheek.

Harry's heart sank even lower as another wave of guilt washed over him, and his eyes seemed to have found their place on the stone below again.

"I didn't break in Ron, I'm serious." He sounded sincere, but Ron was not in a believing mood.

"Then how'd you get back, then, if you don't mind?" Ron's anger enveloped him, but he was too tired to absorb it.

Harry looked back at him, his face it's usual shade of I'm-pissed-at-you maroon. "I Apparated there, but I'm not sure how- one minute I was in my flat, thinking about The Burrow and holding my- my wand! I got my wand back- it was sent to me, whoever it was had a falcon- and there was a note that said it had Thestral Hair in it's core!"

"I thought you couldn't do magic anymore, Harry. Thestral hair? God, you're pathetic... Hmm, Gryffindor honesty not up to your standards? Bloody coward."

"Ron, I'm telling the truth! My wand- I must've left it at The Burrow. Go and see for yourself. I need it back anyway. Then you'll see that what I'm saying isn't some- some... delusion or something. Please."

Ron huffed a little, watching Harry with a weary eye as if he might jump on him at any moment. It was moments before he opened his mouth again to speak. "Fine. We'll go back. But if you're lying..." Harry knew him well enough, even now, to tell when he was being threatened out of fear.

"Thank you," He didn't dare breathe another word.

ooOoo


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four:

The pair appeared with a soft _crack_ in the backyard of the Burrow. In the daylight, Harry could only slightly tell that the place had been burned to the ground all those years ago. Harry turned to see the graveyard- in their final resting place were at least the entire immediate Weasley family, flowers and assorted personal items strewn about around them. Ron obviously kept things immaculate. There was one stand-alone grave with a fresh pile of books on top of it. Hermione.  
Harry fought back tears as he turned away from the painful sight, and his eyes rested at his feet. He could feel Ron staring at him for a moment or two, when he cut through the silence with the gruff voice Harry was only starting to get used to, "Harry- um, it... It wasn't. Your fault, I mean..." He trailed off into silence. There was a long pause, which Harry broke, "It was."

The two headed inside. Harry needed to lay down, but thought better of an attempt to do so here, now. Instead, he made his way directly to the downstairs toilet where Ron had found him that morning. Ron broke his tail almost as soon as he set foot inside, the hope that he had a fresh bottle of firewhiskey something too strong to interfere with.

Harry stopped short at the door. His wand was in a puddle of vomit next to the loo.  
"Lovely,"  
He stepped forward slowly, trying not to think about having to touch his own sick. He bent over, his fingers only inches from the wood, when suddenly the length of Holly rose into the air, clean as ever, and a faint blue light erupted from it's tip. Harry recoiled, pulling his hand back instantly, before even realizing what he was doing. The wand spun in the air like the needle of a compass, swinging first to the left- then the right, losing it's momentum before the tip pointed to the solid wall opposite him. Harry couldn't take his eyes off of the blue light as it grew stronger and stronger still, now even more so than the daylight that flooded the scene, drowning everything in a pale electric blue. It started to hum and quiver, as if it were trying desperately to tell him something, as if it's shaky vibrations were screaming at him in a language he could not understand, and if he was being honest, he didn't know that he wanted to. Ron's voice startled him and broke his transfixed gaze, "Harry, you found your wand yet? What's taking you so long? I don't want to come in there and find out that I'm right about you,"  
A heartbeat passed, one that Harry could hear thunder in his ears. "No- I found it. Really, I'll be there in a minute. Just hold on a second, something's-" Before he could finish his sentence, the humming stopped. He took his eyes off of the doorway and they snapped back to the wand, no longer glowing blue. Then, without warning, it fell back towards the floor. Harry caught it about an inch and a half from the vomit-soaked tile. Apparently, he thought, he still had his Seeker's reflexes. He analyzed his wand with a look of bewilderment and curiosity in his eyes, before turning and marching out to show Ron evidence of his honesty.

They spent the rest of the day making very short small talk, and drinking away their sanity. Harry's withdrawals had been fairly mild as far as they come, thanks to whatever they gave him at the hospital. But some things still rotted in the damp corners of his mind. Ron still didn't know what he was on, maybe. He was guilty and ashamed of his habits, but more so at himself for not being fully honest with his oldest friend, even if they were estranged. Also, he hadn't been in the Wizarding World for nearly a decade; everyone still carried much venom for him- after all, he was still the Boy who Backed Down, the Boy who Betrayed the world. The Man who Lied to save himself, at least in the public eye.

The two drank to forget, and after a while they actually struck up a conversation. Or at least, to the best of their ability in the inebriated state they were in. They would have no memory of their conversation come morning, but for a while, the two men were two boys again; carefree and happy- so intoxicated that reality seemed to slip away. For a while, it felt as if they would wake up in the morning and Molly would scold them, well- Ron, more than Harry- for underage drinking, and Ginny would be there, making awkward eye contact with him through breakfast, and Fred and George would disrupt the peaceful quiet with a loud fireworks display followed by an impromptu game of Quidditch. Only for a while, before reality slyly sank it's razor teeth into the flesh of fantasy, ripping the dream apart as quickly as it had come together, reminding them that only darkness follows twilight.

Soon, night fell and sleep overtook them.

Harry dreamed that night, for the first time in a long time. He dreamed that he was in the Chamber of Secrets again, but instead of fighting or running, he was hiding in the pipes while Ron and Ginny fought the Basilisk, fought Voldemort. Then, he was in the Graveyard with Cedric, and Cedric was the one fighting this time- slinging hex after counter-curse at Wormtail, while he lay, paralyzed- on the ground. He could hear his body fall to the ground with a heavy thud, before he could feel his own body slowly sinking into the cold, damp, rotting Earth. He was holding something- clutching it to his chest, willing with all his might to not let go. It was on a chain. It was important, he knew that much, very important. He could stop this if he only knew how-

"Harry," A distant voice rang out from behind him.

He tried to move to meet the face of the person calling out to him, but he was still paralyzed, still sinking...

"HARRY!"

He felt hands on him now, warm then hot, then burning into his flesh, contrasting the icy chill that was the rest of him. He felt the heat pulling him...

Harry opened his eyes, vision blurred and head aching, to the close image of one Ronald Weasley, panic-stricken and... soaking wet.

"What- why are you..." Harry broke off as his mind reconnected with his central nervous system and he realized that he, too, was drenched. And cold. Ron reached into his pocket with one hand and pulled out Harry's glasses, shoving them onto the bridge of the man's nose.

"Harry- do you see where you are? Merlin, Harry- you're lucky I found you wandering around, you almost drowned to death! I've never seen you sleepwalk before,"

Indeed, they were sitting in the swamp out behind the Burrow, both covered in cold water and mud, in an upright position in the shallow water. Harry realized that Ron's arms were around his midsection and he was supporting his weight, muscles straining to keep him above water. He straightened himself and the two of them stood to face each other. Harry was shaking, and it had little to do with the cold. Once he had attained some semblance of composure, he spoke.  
"That's because I haven't been in your presence for nearly a decade. People tend to change over long periods of time."  
The pair trudged silently back to the house. Once they reached solid ground, Harry realized just how uncomfortable he was. He wished more than anything that he could do a drying charm and be over with it. He was also painfully sick, no surprise there. He knew it wasn't from a night spent drinking.  
Ron entered the kitchen, and met Harry in the living room a few moments later with another bottle.  
They sat in silence as he took the first swig. Then Harry started, "I think I know why he didn't try to kill me again."  
Ron didn't say a word. Instead, he only stared hard at an empty picture frame and gulped down more of the amber liquid, liking it's burn more than the pain of facing brutal realities.  
After a lengthy pause, in which Ron decided Harry was not going to divulge his reasoning, he automatically prodded, "Why?" He regretted the word the moment it had come tumbling out of his mouth, in the way that anyone who has ever been both drunk and human understands. He passed the bottle to Harry, who took it gratefully, albeit warily- and only after a large, stomach-melting portion began again. "He thought he wanted me dead. He did. And when he tried the second time, it worked- I died. And he had his bloody victory. But when I came back, it was only until we both realized that I couldn't do magic anymore that that victory was taken from him. The most valuable thing to him is power. Magic was the only power he ever truly had, and he knew mine was stronger, but he never understood why. He never understood that it went beyond ability, that it was deeper than superficial control. He finally had his vengeance on me, bested me in the one way he counted. He didn't try a third time because, to him, a life without power is worse than death."

A long moment passed. Ron turned to meet his gaze. "Is it?

There was another long pause. Without breaking eye contact, he spoke with sharp clarity that which was the haunting truth, "Life without love is worse than death, Ron. I think we both know that."

The bottle was halfway gone before either of them spoke again.  
"Harry, something never made sense to me,"

"Oh, really?  
"Well, I mean- it did at first, but a while after the war was over, and I had the time to think about it, I mean- really think about it... Harry, you couldn't have been a Horcrux."

The skinny, shaggy-haired man looked at him through puffy, red eyes, almost affronted. Then the look turned into one of deep questioning as his gaze fell to the table in front of him, then his hands and the bottle he held. Realization dawned on him visibly. "In the Chamber- the Basilisk... Ron, is this real?"

"Exactly, Harry. Don't you see? Basilisk venom- it destroyed Horcruxes. Even if you were one, you weren't after that."

"But, Fawkes-"

"Fawkes healed you, Harry. Phoenix tears have the ability to heal the body. But to repair a piece of damaged dark magic? To fix a wounded soul?"

Harry sat there, mouth slightly open, for a long while. "You sound almost like Hermione,"

Ron stopped himself from lashing out at the compliment, because that's what it was, but barely. Then the memories came. Just snippets, little things- like the way her curly dark brown hair seemed to glow in the sunlight, a dark fire around her head like the reflection of the sunset in water. Her soft caramel skin under his fingertips, her big eyes like deep pools of coffee that threatened to drown anyone who dared look in their depths. Her sharp wit and genius intellect- remarks so cutting that sometimes he wondered if Slytherin or Ravenclaw would have favored her. But then, of course- her unrelenting bravery. She was so full of courage and life, a life that she gave up being courageous. Rushing headfirst into battle, losing her wit in a moment of beautiful, stupid rage. Losing her life in a moment of brokenness. Was she broken? He tried not to wonder, but his mind always strayed to one of the most painful questions he would never know the answers to; Did they break her?

Harry didn't notice at first, seemingly too caught up in his own private spiral, as tears silently spilled from Ron's eyes. After a moment, he looked back at him. Before he even knew what he was doing, he was holding his hand, using his left to cradle his head. He didn't know why, only that he needed some kind of comfort. Ron seemed to know this as well. They looked into each other's eyes, the knowledge of emotion passing between them like a bond that had never been broken. Ron looked at his friend's lips; was he mental? No, he let that question die- this didn't seem so abnormal. In a world full of pain and hurt, here was something real, solid. Someone who understood the agony. Someone else who lived with it. Someone he could touch.  
For a moment.  
Evidently, Harry had this moment too.  
In a life that could be torture, sometimes he needed relief- but he knew that instant gratification will never compare to the lasting bond of friendship, of love. And so the moment passed. And so did the bottle.

"Why did they never come after you?" Harry asked flatly, staring straight ahead of them.

Ron didn't want to answer, didn't want to hear the words that crashed around his head all day said aloud. But, in a truly human manner, for fear of nothing else being said, he did. "They killed my family. Everyone I ever knew or loved-" He paused, shooting a glance at Harry "-besides you. You'd think they would've come for me years ago, but the truth is they might show up any day, wanting something. But, I think that's what they want: they want me to live in fear, waiting for death."

There was a long pause.  
"Are you?"

ooOoo

"I said to my soul, be still and wait without hope, for hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, for love would be love of the wrong thing;there is yet faith, but the faith and the love are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought. So, the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing." -T.S. Elliot


	5. From the Journal of RAB

Someone has left me little choice and given me just enough trust. Revenge is fucking bitter and I live to see past it another day, but at times it feels like I'm already dead with these sour memories rotting in my mind. Regardless, I will still feel frozen. But, this way, the one who made me like this will never throw another into these depths of madness. This way, I might, for once in a long time- feel more than the icy chill that permeates my soul. I might feel a fire rushing through my blood, one that I don't care reduces my corpse to ash; for my soul will be free, and my mind restful- beyond these confines of bone so easily crushed, and flesh so easily ripped.

**R.A.B.**


End file.
